


she doesn't need me, not like I need her

by azalera



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/F, Humor, Minor Emilie Agreste/Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Minor Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Polyamorous Character, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Slow Burn, but someone else is, gabriel is not poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azalera/pseuds/azalera
Summary: A collection of one-shots for Nathalie/Emilie. Mostly one-sided and slow burn. Gabriel (and his ships) will make some appearances, but he is not the focus.
Relationships: Emilie Agreste/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	she doesn't need me, not like I need her

Nathalie lines up three porcelain containers, all a pale yellow with a wide lip, across the bar counter. Her ears perk at the sound of a child-like giggle. Nathalie looks at her feet, and though the boy huddling by her legs—Adrien—wears a toothy grin, he is, as usual, quiet. Nathalie pushes her glasses up, and in her periphery, she spots the blonde hair, tropical green eyes, and parted lips of the giggler-in-question. 

“Always so organized, aren’t you Nat?” that singsong voice asks. 

“Of course, Emilie. If I remember correctly, you’ve stated multiple times that you hired me for that reason.” 

“And your somewhat questionable baking skills.” A deft, dainty hand reaches around Nathalie’s shoulders, and then the lid of a container pops open as that hand twists. Though Nathalie leans back on her heels, she cannot escape Emilie’s thin wrist, peeking out from a three-quarter sleeve and bumping against her own hand. 

“I...didn’t think that was particularly relevant when I applied to be your assistant.” 

“It wasn’t. Isn’t. But...it makes our life a little more exciting, doesn’t it?” 

Emilie’s mouth does pretty things when it morphs into a smile. Nathalie focuses on the specks of flour that have already spilled on the counter. 

“Regardless,” she replies. “If you want to make cinnamon rolls, then it is my job to help.” 

The room quiets, except for the pattering of Adrien’s footsteps as he paces the kitchen floor. Nathalie places a block of butter on the counter and twists out of Emilie’s reach to procure a few eggs. By the time Nathalie gathers the ingredients, Emilie is already hunched over her mixing bowl with a large wooden spoon. 

Nathalie spares her a look, and then her eyes are on the ingredients, as they should be. 

Flour, check. 

Sugar, check. 

Eggs, check. 

Butter, check. 

"Check, check, check,” Nathalie says, until reaching an inevitable stop. Nathalie meets Emilie’s questioning gaze, and Nathalie gestures to the gap in the lined-up ingredients and mouths a single word. 

Emilie nods. 

“Adrien?” Emilie spins on her heel with a flat stare in the boy’s direction, though the hint of a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. He stares up at her with beady eyes, his hands tucked and folded behind his back. 

“Yes, maman?” 

“Have you seen a glass jar, about this big?” Emilie gestures with her hands, and then twists them around as if rolling a ball. “Round?” 

“Hm....” Adrien laughs, and his words are rushed “I...dunnowhatchyouretalkingabout.” 

“Oh? Nat, how about you? Have you seen a glass jar, approximately this size, said to be holding some baker’s yeast?” Emilie gestures again. 

“Hm...a small glass jar? I believe you sent me to the grocery store to buy something matching that exact description.” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” Emilie peers at Adrien. “Well, if none of us have it...perhaps your father has hidden it from us, then?” 

“What? No way, impossible...” Adrien pouts. 

“No? Well then, could it be...” Emilie pinches the cartilage of her son’s ear. “Here?” 

Adrien pulls his arms further back behind him and clenches his hands tighter together. “Maybe Nathalie has it?” 

“Oh, you think so? Nat, have you taken our yeast? Should I check behind your ear, too?” 

Adrien cheers. Nathalie offers only a hard stare at first, but then turns her head and carefully pulls her own ear forward, exposing the potential hiding place. 

“Hm, well then, Adrien. I guess we won't be baking cinnamon rolls today.” 

“Noooooo...” 

“Unless, perhaps...you can find the jar we’re looking for? Could it be hidden somewhere?” 

Adrien sprints to the opposite side of the kitchen and swings open every cabinet, pulls open every drawer. 

Nathalie watches with her head tilted. “I wonder how long this will take?” 

Emilie whispers with the softest of giggles. “I doubt it will take long. I’m sure he wants to impress me” 

Nathalie raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure stealing your yeast is good evidence of that.” 

“He’s just a little chaotic sometimes, you know. When he’s not being quiet.” Emilie blinks, so innocent—yet her eyelashes do a mischievous little flutter, and her lips are curled, and the pitch of her voice peaks at just the right moment. “He must get that from his father.” 

“Or you,” Nathalie quips, and her own lips curl as she reads the recipe scrawled out on notebook paper and taped to the corner of the counter. She weighs out the ingredients, one by one—butter, sugar, flour—until, sure enough, Adrien quiets with his cabinet slamming and drawer decimating. 

The soft, sing-song sort of speaking Nathalie hears from the opposite side of the kitchen could be mistaken for Emilie’s own melodic voice if not for the roundedness of the consonants and length of the vowels. 

“Here you go, I found it.” Adrien says, and a moment later there’s the clink of a glass jar against the counter, and the pop of a sealed lid being removed, and the scrape of yeast being scooped out and measured and dumped into the mixing bowl. 

“Thank you for your help,” Emilie says, and pats her son on the shoulder. “Nat, can you bring over the sugar? Okay, Adrien, I’m going to lift you up, and you can pour the sugar into our bowl. Ready?” 

Adrien nods, and Emilie scoops him up into her arms. 

“Yep. Just like that! And now the milk...and we’re going to stir it with the spoon, okay?” She sets Adrien back down, though he immediately leans on his tip-toes and watches the yeast awaken. “Now we need to wait until it’s all bubbly.” 

Nathalie rereads the recipe and frowns. “Emilie, do you know how to knead dough?” 

Adrien’s eyebrows furrow, briefly, and then he grins. 

“How hard can it be?” Emilie rolls up her sleeves. She digs a hand into one of the kitchen drawers and hums as she finds a blue ribbon, and then she’s gathering her thick, blonde hair in her hands and tying it low to her scalp. Her hair tumbles down her neck and spills down her shoulder when she turns her head. 

Nathalie runs a hand through her pixie-cut locks before grabbing the container of flour. 

“...It says to dust the counter with flour,” Nathalie offers, staring pointedly at the recipe. Emilie extends a hand and grabs a fistful of flour. She tosses it on the counter, and then grabs a second fistful, a third. Some of the flour is cast into the air as she grabs and grabs; some of the flour sticks to Emilie’s chest and shirt. 

Nathalie’s mouth remains shut. 

“Okay, now we have to add the flour and butter to the bowl...” Emilie grabs the dishes of flour and butter Nathalie had prepped, and peers at the recipe. Her hair hangs low, the ends just brushing the surface of the counter and her bangs falling into her face. “And we mix it with the spoon until a ball forms. And then we dump it out on the counter and knead for...7-10 minutes.” 

Nathalie nods. “Okay,” she finally says, when the silence in the air becomes thick and itchy. 

Emilie squeezes in beside Adrien and adds the ingredients in her hands into the bowl, and shows him how to pour and how to stir, and with the clattering of wood against glass and the murmuring of mother and child, heavy air becomes thinner, lighter, and Nathalie focuses on cleaning what she can and stacking ingredients away in the cupboards. Adrien turns to her, and he’s wearing another shy grin. 

“We dough-n't knead those anymore?” he asks, and points to the milk and yeast. 

Nathalie stares down at him and blinks. “What?” 

Adrien laughs, mostly to himself, and Emilie shakes her head with a smile. “Come on, Adrien, we _need_ to _knead_ the dough.” 

More laughter ensues, and Nathalie watches. Emilie and Adrien have the same sparkling eyes. 

_Brrrrrrring_ _._

And then the moment is gone. Nathalie’s phone rings. She steps out of the kitchen, presses the phone to her ear, and is sucked back into the world of schedules and formalities and the press—and it is better, she reasons, then whatever semblance of friendship or family had been born in that kitchen. And it must be that way for Emilie, too, because in an instant she is back to laughing with her son and dotting his nose with flour. 

Emilie didn’t really _knead_ Nathalie to bake cinnamon rolls, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in the collection writings about Nathalie and Emilie. With this collection, I hope to unite all of us who are shipping this rairpair. Let me know what you think!


End file.
